


Birdsong

by anthracoceros



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, birds birds birds!, mentions of pappa mamma little my and snorkmaiden, mentions of the joxter, ship is innocent and lowkey, very fluffy as with all things i write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 17:11:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17922941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthracoceros/pseuds/anthracoceros
Summary: In which Snufkin can talk to birds, and Moomin turns a year older.





	Birdsong

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write about birds, so i did.  
> see if you can name all the birds mentioned ;0  
> tumblr is codeine-3!

Snufkin did not know what to do for Moomin’s birthday.

Snufkin was not very practiced in the art of birthday celebration; because he grew up without much parental guidance, his own birth date remained unknown to him. He didn’t really mind this. How could he celebrate his birthday without remaining in one place for enough time to develop friendships?

This changed when Snufkin arrived in Moominvalley. When he was questioned by Moomin, the troll was appalled at his lack of celebration. Snufkin’s “birthday”, he decided, would be an anniversary of the day he arrived in Moominvalley, when the comet was still tearing through the sky and the residents of the valley were making themselves scarce. This made his anniversary the day before Moomin’s own birthday.

Nobody was ever really sure what to get Snufkin for his anniversary. Moominmamma would make copious amounts of food to make sure the boy did not spend a moment of the day hungry; Moominpappa would hand him a crimson envelope with an enclosed letter from his father. Once, Moomin got him a tangible gift-a sweater which he had knitted himself, with the help of Moominmamma. It was, he said, just in case the winter temperatures were too cold for Snufkin’s shirt alone. Other times, Moomin would just let Snufkin do whatever he liked for the day. Even though this was not much different than any other day, the vagabond appreciated the sentiment.

Snufkin was, admittedly, bad at giving gifts. He did not often find things he thought merited possession, so on Moomin’s birthday he’d take the troll to a place he’d never shown him, or perhaps a place he had before that was too far out of the way for Moomin to navigate to himself. Snufkin liked sharing nature’s spectacles with his friend. This, Moomin said, was more than he could ever ask for.

As the vagabond spent more time in Moominvalley, he opened up to the concept of “keeping things”. He could tell that Moomin did not always understand the value of the colors of a setting sun, or the patterns of the xylem on a large leaf. So, he gradually became more inclined to pick up little things that he thought Moomin would appreciate. This included colorful rocks, the leftover scales of the fish he caught, and, once, the skull of a small animal.

Though Snorkmaiden was extremely averse to that, Moomin enjoyed it so much that he painted flowers on it and placed it on the shelf in his room. He said he found comfort in the way it watched over him, as though it would gobble up his nightmares and his troubles with its piercing ivory teeth.

This year, Snufkin decided, he would combine his two habits into one gift that he would expect the troll to appreciate. He wanted to share his ability to speak to birds.

Snufkin did not like to share much about himself, so this was secret from everyone except the Joxter. The Joxter possessed cursory knowledge on how to speak to the birds himself, but he was more apt at communicating with felines. Snufkin, from the day of his birth, could understand the intonations of every birdsong, every squawk and screech and caw. At times, it was annoying, especially with the corvids who would throw teases at him and Moomin when they took a promenade without the company of Snorkmaiden or Little My. Other times he was very thankful for his talents, for he could play his harmonica to the songs of the sylviid warblers or answer the queries of the curious bowerbirds.

This year, he wanted to ask the birds for a favor for a change.

 

Snufkin diverged from the group fairly early in the day. It was a bit too hot for his liking, even to go to the beach with the others. The humidity made his shirt stick to his skin, and he craved the whips of the wind and the shade of the woods.

So, here he was, roaming the woods which had situated themselves at the foot of the Lonely Mountains. The sun dotted intermittently through the heavy canopy of the large maidenhair and silver birch trees. There was not a cloud in the sky, but he was thoroughly shaded by the leaves above him.

When Snufkin came to a small clearing, he stopped and let out a low, warbling whistle. At the rustle of a nearby sprig, the wanderer stuck a single finger out as though he were pointing into the distance. A flash of cobalt stooped from the crown and made himself comfortable on his hand.

“Hello, fairywren,” Snufkin greeted, combing a single finger through the scruff of the small passerine. It leaned into the touch, puffing up slightly so Snufkin could better scratch at his skin.

“Hello, Snufkin! It’s been a little while.”

“Yes, I’ve been spending more time at the riverbank.”

“With that troll of yours?”

Snufkin flushed lightly. “Yes, and as a matter of fact, I came to speak with you about him.”

The fairywren looked up from where he was carding through the retrices on his wing. “Is that so?”

“Yes. You see, his birthday is coming up in about a week, and I wanted to do something special for him. I want you to survey a message to the other birds in this land. Could you do that for me?”

“Of course, Snufkin. What would you like me to say?”

“Please tell all your friends that if they have any dropped feathers, I would like to have them. Any color, any size.”

“Certainly,” it chirruped, jumping from Snufkin’s hand to the branch from where it came. “I don’t have any myself, for I am not in moult, but I will make sure that everyone who is brings you their plumes.”

“Thank you very much,” Snufkin sighed. “That is a huge relief.”

The bird twittered a small song of no words and took to the sky.

 

Over the course of the next few days, Snufkin had gathered a considerable number of feathers.

Most of the birds which visited him deliberately had spoken or sung to him prior. Friends of the fairywren offered azure and jade coverts which tickled the palms of Snufkin’s hands. A flock of chatty princess parrots brought remiges of peach, lime green, and marigold. Grackles would drop their jet-black tail feathers which shone navy in the direct light of the sun.

At one point, Snufkin was fishing on the bridge when his hat was knocked off by the wingbeats of a large raptor. When it landed next to him on the railing, it spoke with a voice of nimbus and thunder. She roused and preened as they sat together in a comfortable silence, giving him the loose feathers from her crest and a flat secondary feather from both of her wings, feathers that coupled carob with black and pearl undertones. They were some of Snufkin’s personal favorites which he’d received. When he asked her name, she said she was the ornate hawk-eagle of the Lonely Mountains; without further explanation, she took off with a piercing cry. At the beat of her wings, Snufkin’s hat fell into the water once more.

Other birds happened upon him by accident. Once, a tall, white bird with a neck far too long and thin was wading through the river in which Snufkin was fishing. When he saw the vagabond upon the embankment, he remembered his description as told by the fairywren. The plume was much more akin to a cloud than any other he’d seen, gossamer and light, as though woven of spiderwebs. This was the snowy egret, Snufkin was told.

Sometimes, he was not given feathers, but rather tiny trinkets and little things which glittered in the sunlight that caught the attention of the bird as it traveled to meet him. This was especially common among the corvids, who would complement their fat black feathers with little rocks, pieces of ribbon, and rainbow-colored marbles. One raven with a powder-white nape gave Snufkin a small garnet that it had collected near the observatory. It cast a red glow on the feathers around it. Snufkin thanked her profusely with a fat minnow and a scratch on the neck.

            When all was said and done, he used a pearl-colored ribbon given to him by a magpie to tie the quills of the feathers together at their umbilici. Some of them were without quills, broken to the vane; others were missing some of their color or rubbed dander onto the other, darker feathers. This didn’t matter to Snufkin, and he knew it wouldn’t much matter to Moomin either.

           

When Snufkin’s anniversary rolled around, nothing truly out of the ordinary happened. Moominmamma, at his request, made vanilla pancakes with pumpkin jam for breakfast, which everybody enjoyed heartily. Moominpappa slid him a scarlet envelope which was sealed with a wax press of a cat’s eye. When Snufkin tore it open, he was met with the messy handwriting of his absent father:

_“Snufkin. I know we don’t talk much, but I would love to catch up with you. I hope you are enjoying your time in Moominvalley. I am aware that this isn’t your actual birthday, but I can’t for the life of me remember when it actually is…”_

The letter contained a long rambling from Joxter about the state of things, the weather and her indecision, and the changing of the colors of the leaves. At the very end, Joxter happened to recall their last conversation, to which he alluded with a simple _“hold onto your love.”_

Moomin did not have anything to give him this year except his company. They strolled through the woods and their displays of color, watched the clouds lazily traverse the sky from the peak of the Lonely Mountains, and looked for tide pools along the crag of the beach. Moomin was hesitant to spend so much time with Snufkin, as he thought the vagabond would much prefer solitude; the latter easily assuaged his worry, claiming that Moomin’s company was the best gift he could have gotten.

He was wearing the sweater, after all.

The next day, before the rise of the sun, Snufkin emerged from his tent to call the troll down from his room. He summoned him with a curt, high-pitched whistle. When Moomin clambered down the latter, Snufkin spoke.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s early. I wanted to show you something.”

At his declaration, it seemed that Moomin’s exhaustion was whisked away to nothingness.

 

They happened upon a small clearing after a while of walking.

“Ah, we’re here,” Snufkin breathed, stepping into the center of the field. Moomin shuffled behind him. “This isn’t what I wanted to show you. Wait just a moment.”

Snufkin put his fingers in his mouth and let out a low, warbling whistle.

 

“I can’t believe you, Snufkin!” Moomin chirped, skipping excitedly ahead of his friend along the river. “You can speak to _birds_! Of all the things!”

“I figured you’d take interest in it. I wanted to use it for your birthday.”

“Use it? How so?”

Snufkin shook his head and beckoned Moomin to his tent. When they were inside, all that was there was Snufkin’s journal and one of Moominmamma’s jars.

“This is for you,” Snufkin explained, handing the jar to Moomin. He twisted the cap off and gasped, in awe of the bouquet of feathers which sat inside. With delicate paws, he untied the shiny ribbon at their quills and set the feathers out in front of him, one by one. Snufkin told the story of the birds who gave each to him, about the lanky egret and the powerful hawk-eagle, about the large piebald raven and the horde of parrots. Moomin listened from the edge of his metaphorical seat, completely engrossed in the tales he was told.

“And look, there’s more in here.” Snufkin tipped the jar upside-down and shook it lightly, and a plethora of contents fell gently into the grass. “These are also from the birds.”  

Moomin gaped at the little things which tumbled from the jar. There were marbles, ribbons, rocks, shells, flowers, and a very shiny garnet. Moomin took the gemstone in his paw and held it in front of his face, staring in pure awe at the stone.

“That’s from where we passed through on our way to the observatory,” Snufkin clarified. Moomin nodded dumbfoundedly and continued to examine the garnet, which cast a light red glow on the fur of his face. It gleamed in his eyes as well, a cardinal shine which complemented the baby blue of his irises.

After a while, Moomin exhaled heavily. “Oh, Snufkin… this is all so beautiful…” He was holding the garnet in the palm of his paw, carding through the feathers with his other fingers. “Thank you so much… and thank the birds for me too…”

Snufkin hummed. “I will, of course. I couldn’t have done it without them.”

Moomin did not continue the conversation, instead pressing his snout against Snufkin’s own nose. He nuzzled into his friend, warming his face and causing him to flush deeply. When Moomin pulled away, Snufkin tugged his hat over his face and laughed.


End file.
